Heron Fleet

by Paul Beatty

  ‘Well, I think we start over there by finding the wall that would have been the outside of the building.’

  Chapter 3

  Francesca lay still. She could feel every contact point between her body and the cool sheets: heels, buttocks, shoulder blades, elbows. Anya’s body curled around hers, her lover’s head in the hollow between her shoulder and her neck, a bent leg hooked over her stomach. It was that point of perfect relaxation, of oneness after passion as breathing and heart rate slowed and companionship replaced placated lust. She stretched, arching her back like a cat waking in the grass of a summer’s day. Anya moved a little in response and in return Francesca pulled her closer.

  ‘There, that’s a lot better than worrying isn’t it?’ said Anya.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. After all where would I find as good a singer to serenade me in the winter’s cold?’

  ‘And where would I find as good a…’ Francesca tried to find the right word to sum to what she really felt but failed. All she managed was a wholly inadequate ‘…friend as you?’

  Anya sat up in feigned anger. ‘Or as good a lover?’ They kissed again and Francesca relaxed back into a peaceful mood. She began to hum gently to herself.

  ‘Is that the beginning of a new song?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ve been working on the words for a while.’

  ‘Can I hear them?’

  ‘I don’t see why not, it’s about us,’ and Francesca began to recite:

  My love, let not my love be called idolatry,

  Nor you as friend be known for idol show,

  Since all as one my songs and passions be

  To one, of one they shall be ever so.

  Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind?

  She will be constant in her loving way.

  Therefore, my song lends constancy of mind

  Though modest, my response all others say.

  Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,

  Fair, kind, and true is all her counter-spell,

  And in that bargain, love is truly met,

  And in our bed are all thoughts made up well.

  Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords,

  Fair, kind, and true may often live alone,

  But in my house the three keep seat in one.

  ‘That’s marvellous and so flattering.’

  ‘It’s not quite right yet. I’ll have to work on it, especially when I get a tune, but it’s coming on.’

  ‘I don’t know where your ideas come from.’

  ‘It may not seem it but mostly it’s everyday things that set me off, a bird, a flower, something one of the Crèche children says. Though not in this case. This time the words wrote themselves.’

  ‘Well wherever they came from I shall be very proud when you first sing them in the Gathering Hall. I’ll go round, nudge everyone and say “That’s my Francesca that is”.’

  ‘What, even the Council?’

  ‘Yes, even the Council, especially that misery Peter. Just because he has the Red-book to read it doesn’t mean he can be snooty about people like you, who have to learn their songs by heart.’

  Francesca frowned. ‘You know that’s always puzzled me. Why is it only a few of the Senior Gatherers who ever learn to read? If I could read and even better write, I could write down my poems and songs. Then when I die they’d still be there to be sung, even if no one remembers them by heart.’

  ‘They never said we couldn’t learn to read or write in the Crèche.’

  ‘No but if you asked, though the nurses always said you could learn, somehow it never happened. There was always something more important to do.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘Yes, lots of times.’

  ‘Why don’t you learn now?’

  ‘Who would have the time to teach me? As far as I know there are only ten Gatherers in the whole community who can read. Besides, I’m too old to learn now.’

  ‘Can’t be. Not all the leaders of the Council could read before election. They say Peter was the first one in years. The leader has to know how to read from the Red-book, so others must have had to learn when they were much older than you. Go on, ask again.’

  ‘Maybe. But not until after they’ve made me a Gardener. I wouldn’t want to look like a troublemaker until that happens.’

  ‘How can asking make trouble? Promise me you’ll ask when you’re a Gardener?’

  ‘Well, alright. I suppose it can’t do any harm. I promise.’ They kissed again.

  ‘Now I don’t know about you but I’m still feeling energetic.’ Anya moved round to straddle her.

  ‘Well then I’ll have to make sure you get the exercise you need,’ said Francesca.

  The bell rang as the signal for the Council to enter. In front of High Table, exactly opposite where Peter would sit, stood Jeremy and Caleb, traditional coronets of wild flowers in their hair. A pace behind them stood their supporters Francesca and Anya, Susan and Christine. Peter smiled at the two young men as he stopped in front of them. The Community fell quiet, disturbed only by one insistent voice from the Crèche tables that carried right across the hall. ‘I’m hungry,’ followed by a sharp ‘Shsh’ from a Crèche Nurse. This was the first Declaration for some time.

  ‘I see that we have two who wish to declare their partnership,’ said Peter. ‘Who stands for them?’

  ‘I do,’ replied Francesca. ‘As oldest in our house I stand for them and recommend them. Here are their sisters of the house who also stand for them.’ This was the third Declaration she had stood for but she still felt as nervous as a child when she had to speak in front of the Community.

  Peter spoke again. ‘That is good. Jeremy and Caleb, do you petition the Council to recognise your partnership?’

  ‘We do.’

  Francesca felt a pang of envy at the confidence in Jeremy and Caleb’s voices.

  ‘Have you considered carefully the purposes of such partnerships?’

  ‘We have.’

  How much she wished she could have such assurance.

  ‘And what are those purposes?’

  ‘Comforting each other, in loving harmony. Working together to gather and grow. Providing an example of stability to all.’

  ‘Well said.’ Peter raised his hands. ‘Does anyone oppose this partnership?’

  There was a nervous silence. As far as anyone could remember no one had ever objected but there was always a first time for everything. Peter ended the suspense. ‘In that case do we consent?’

  A great shout of ‘Yes, we do’ came back from everyone in the hall followed by clapping and stamping. Peter shook hands with Jeremy and Caleb and handed them the evening hardbread. ‘Be the first this night to divide the bread.’

  Caleb took it, broke it and handed a piece to Jeremy. ‘Power to the bread,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘Power to the gathered food,’ replied Jeremy delivering the sign of blessing. Then he took the hardbread and did the same for Caleb.

  ‘May your partnership be long and happy,’ concluded Peter to more clapping and cheering. Then as custom demanded the couple were clapped round all the tables, starting with the Council, shaking hands with as many people as they could manage.

  Finally, order was restored, Jeremy and Caleb were back at their normal table and food was arriving from the kitchens.

  ‘Congratulations you two,’ said an enthusiastic Anya, hugging both of them. ‘A long and happy partnership.’

  ‘And so say all of us,’ added Susan.

  ‘Jeremy and Caleb,’ they all saluted.

  ‘So,’ said Anya to Jeremy, ‘how do you feel?’

  ‘Well, a bit stunned to tell the truth. After all I’m the youngest of you all, well, you know, I’m only…’

  ‘Seventeen,’ they all chorused at him and then laughed.

  ‘Yes, we know,’ said Christine, ‘and less than two years out of the Crèche.

  ‘And catching Caleb, who barring our patr
iarch Francesca…’ choruses of may she live forever ‘… is the oldest. Carry on like this young man you’ll be the heart throb of the Community.’ Choruses of Ooooooo!

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ chipped in Caleb. ‘This is no three-year romance. We intend it to last as long as we live,’ and he bent over and kissed Jeremy.

  ‘And that’s how it should be,’ said Susan. ‘Let’s hear it one more time, Jeremy and Caleb.’ Choruses of Hurrah!

  ‘So I wonder what the next big event will be for us?’ Susan continued. All eyes looked at Francesca.

  ‘You know I heard the Council are going to send the next new Gatherer to herd the sheep,’ said Christine.

  ‘Or fish from the boats,’ added Jeremy

  ‘Poor Anya, all those pooey fish scales.’ Caleb held his nose and pulled a nasty-smell-face like a small child.

  ‘Whatever it’s going to be for Francesca the Gatherer, it’s not going to be anything to do with plants,’ said Susan and they all laughed as Francesca blushed.

  They were right. She had tried out herding the sheep, which she liked, and fishing, which she loathed. But they all knew that she wanted to be a Gardener and hoped with her that the Council would see it the same way.

  Whilst the Council tried to put people into the jobs they wanted, any jobs that Gatherers did were essential for the survival and wellbeing of the Community. Everyone had to work for the good of all. It was the bargain of being a Gatherer and having a full voting say in how the Community was run, that you did the task given to you without complaining and as well as you could. As the promises Jeremy and Caleb had just taken made clear, everyone needed to find their role. That was how the Community had survived in the past and that was how it would survive in the future. It gave its members identity and stability, it was mother and father to them all. She knew she would serve it as well as she could even if it was not as a Gardener. The alternative was to starve.

  A few days later Francesca got a message from Joseph, the Gatherer who organised the field-work details. Please would Francesca report to Sylvia in the Glasshouses. Dutifully she walked over there, wondering what to expect.

  The Glasshouses were really a single chainlike structure. The core of this chain was the domes. Varying in height from ten to twenty metres, linked by simple tent-shaped tunnels, they were the most complicated buildings in Heron Fleet. Through the whole chain ran an open stone trough which channelled water from a reservoir near the entrance. Each glasshouse took what it needed for its plants from this stream. Plants grown at the top of the chain required the most water, the most drought-tolerant were in the lower houses.

  The Glasshouses had two essential purposes: to provide seedlings for planting in the fields during the growing season and to supplement the winter stores of potatoes, corn, millet and wheat, with fresh vegetables, zucchini, marrows, celeriac, onions, and herbs. In short to add variety to what would otherwise be a boring winter diet.

  At this time of year, near to the midpoint of the growing season, the houses were at their emptiest. Most of the seedlings had gone to the fields and the beds were being prepared for next year, with mulches made from different materials. As she followed the flow of the water, Francesca could identify the smell of each of these materials: the fruity smell of sheep and goat manure, the warm mottled smell of the leaf-mould and finally the salt and metallic taste of sea-weed. As she passed through the domes, groups of Gardeners stopped work to wave at her. Perhaps, she thought, they watched her a bit longer and smiled more intensely at her than normal, but she might be wrong. Though, whatever was the reason for her being summoned, it was out of the ordinary and they knew it.

  In the centre of the chain where the two most important domes, the heart of the whole system. The first was the largest. In it were most of the main controls, including those for the gravity-fed sprinklers in the lower houses and the levers for the ventilators in the central section of domes. The second dome was much smaller but just as vital. It was the propagation chamber, the most exactly controlled area in the whole complex. In all the other houses, the borders where the plants grew were at ground level. In the propagation chamber, there were rows of benches with trays of soil and boxes. Strung above these on cords were cloth baffles that could be used to control temperature or light intensity. Seeds or tubers, kept from the previous season in the cool store outside the houses, were planted either directly into soil in the trays or into the boxes. After they germinated they were grown on a little, until they could be pricked out and transplanted.

  Anyone coming into the houses needed to report to Sylvia, the Head Gardener. She was usually to be found in the main dome but when Francesca got there she could see no one. In search of help she drifted into the propagation chamber. Sylvia was in the middle of the benches talking to Simon, one of the Deputy Gardeners. Francesca walked towards them.

  Sylvia was tall and sinewy, with black hair, olive skin and bony features. She held herself rather stiffly and carried a staff of knotted alder wood. Years of working as a Gardener had taken their toll on her joints. Her fingers, once long, thin and dexterous, were beginning to swell and stiffen. The staff helped her walk, as arthritis weakened her legs and knees.

  The Rule was clear, mating between male and female was destructive and reprehensible. All births were the result of intervention by the Crèche Nurses, who specialised in pregnancy and birthing. They selected the right male for the right female. They collected the male seed and transferred it to the chosen female. They helped at the birth and remembered the pedigree of the child born. It was rumoured that not even the Head of the Council was allowed to know what the Crèche Nurses knew. Francesca thought of them, when she thought of them at all, as Gardeners of people.

  As a result it was a taboo for anyone to so much as whisper about who their birth mother or father might be. The young children accepted this as they accepted that they could not remember their birth-mothers. The only life they could remember was in the Crèche with the Crèche Mothers. It was only as time went by and they got to be teenagers before becoming Apprentices that they started to play the game of Guess which Gatherers were my Mum and Dad. Sometimes it was very difficult since there was no resemblance between a given child and any Gatherer. But when young, many of her friends had remarked on the resemblance between Francesca and Sylvia. And as Francesca grew the similarity remained, for though it was true that Francesca was a little bigger in the breast and slightly shorter in the leg than the austere Head Gardener, in general bearing and in reserve of character, they were very similar. Francesca knew if she got her wish and became a Gardener that would prove the point to many who had speculated a link before.

  ‘So when do you think the mulching will have be finished?’ It was Sylvia speaking.

  ‘In about a week.’

  ‘In good time then. Is the quality good this year?’

  ‘Yes. Last autumn was as placid as I can remember and we got loads of good quality leaf mould as a result. Since the mould always improves the soil texture I’m expecting this year’s seedlings and small plants to make the best start in years.’ Simon paused as he saw Francesca, hopping from foot to foot. Sylvia turned, aware that Simon’s attention was now on something behind her. She took a steady and appraising look at Francesca.

  ‘Are we certain Simon? As it was said last night, does anyone oppose this partnership?’

  ‘Well she looks a bit too much like a slip of a girl I remember coming to see your predecessor when she was an Apprentice, but she did all right and I don’t see why this one shouldn’t be nearly as good.’

  ‘Do you hear that, girl?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Francesca’s head was spinning.

  ‘Well, do you agree?

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘Well in that case I want you here every day from now on until the growing season is over. If you do well over that period, from Harvest Festival onwards you’ll join as a Junior Gardener, working for Simon. I’ve asked the Council for you early becau
se I want you to see a whole year from beginning to end as soon as you can. For us that year starts now, as I think you already know. The bags of seeds on these trays are the beginning of next year’s harvest.’ Sylvia turned to go.

  Francesca thought she must say something before Sylvia left. She wanted to run over to Sylvia and throw her arms round her in shear joy, to dance and sing on the spot but in the presence of a senior community elder like Sylvia, such a demonstration of joy would have been unthinkable. All she said was, ‘Thank you ma’am… Thank you so much.’

  Sylvia looked hard at her again. ‘If by some miracle I’m still alive in thirty years when you’re as old as me and in pain because of all the work you’ve done in these houses and in the outbuildings over those years, you can thank me then, not before. I’ll believe you then. Simon, show her what you want her to do tomorrow.’ Then leaning on her staff she moved off towards the central dome.

  Simon smiled at Francesca as they watched Sylvia go. Then he shook her hand. ‘Welcome to the Honourable Company of Gardeners. Now as you’ve seen as you came in it’s muck-spreading. So guess what you’ll be doing tomorrow.’

  ‘Raking and digging?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. But the first thing I want you to do tomorrow, before you come here, is to report to the Smithy and collect a full set of Gardener’s tools. They will know your coming. Mind now, don’t accept any faulty stuff from them. Your tools will be your friends for many years, pick them as carefully as you’d pick a partner.’

  Chapter 4

  The sledgehammers of the two guards Robert had sent to help us smashed into the stonework. The Lady and I ducked out of the way to avoid being cut by flying splinters.

  It had taken us two days to get this far. The first task had been to establish the line of the outer wall. Then we had cleared the rubble that had filled the space below ground next to that wall. The breakthrough came when we unearthed a window protected on the outside by a metal grille but with intact wired glass beyond.

  The stonework round the grille crumpled under the sledgehammers. The guards prised off the grille and set to work on the glass. When it finally gave way it released a dusty but dry smell. A bit more clearing of the sides and there was a gap big enough for me to climb through.